One of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever. One knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands alone and throws one’s head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly changing and flushing and marvelous unknown things happening until the East almost makes one cry out and one’s heart stands still at the strange unchanging majesty of the rising of the sun—which has been happening every morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years. One knows it then for a moment or so. And one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot quite hear, however much one tries. Then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night with millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure; and sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true; and sometimes a look in some one’s eyes.
The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett
She is sort of right, though a tad too much in love with some of the literary props. Uite si dta cite aliteratzii cu ‘s’ are in propozitzia “And one knows it sometimes…”
Passons.
Desi nu a fost, evident, o mare scriitoare, iar micutzul lord e vraiment o timpenie – cred ca un copil trebuie tzinut departe de astfel de texte – pare sa fi fost un personaj interesant, cu mutra aia a ei, cu cei doi sotzi, cu locuitul la Paris si cu viatza de oarecare debauche pe care a dus-o…
You gotta skip this, it ain’t readable.
A really beautiful text! I could replace ‘one’ with my name and it is still so true. It makes me think of one of my favourite Psalms :
“O Lord, how great is the number of your works! in wisdom you have made them all.”
A really beautiful text! I could replace \’one\’ with my name and it is still so true. It makes me think of one of my favourite Psalms :
\”O Lord, how great is the number of your works! in wisdom you have made them all.\”
Așa… și?
Am scrisa o poezie pe un cur-papir, o poezie stufoasa, lunga, stropita de pasionanta aromatica inteleapta dorinta de eternitate…
Vlad, tu esti un finutz, o ambrozie secreta a lumii de dincolo… Nu vrei sa citesti o poezie?
Uneori răsfoiesc la întâmplare gutenberg.org, aleg o carte și o cetesc. Așa am făcut cu asta, care e slabă dacă o iei „în absolut”, dar dacă te pui la mintea ei are o chestie. În plus, am persistat fiindcă avea legătură cu un blog de pe vremuri pe care îl citeam.
Habar n-aveam de F.H.B., dar mi-am adus aminte că am citit Micul Lord când aveam vreo 7 ani. Pe atunci mi-a plăcut.
Nu. O carte nu e atat de stravezie pe cat aduce titlul si asta chiar daca e scrisa pentru copii.
O carte e ca si o femeie: cu cat o rasfoiesti, cu atat vrei sa citesti mai departe; cu cat o recitesti, cu atat nu intelegi nimic si o reincepi, daca ai chef bineninteles. :))
Auzi, tu, Vlade, de cand am auzit ca esti tatic, parca nu mai stiu de ce ne razboiam?! “Crezi” ca oamenii, in general si antropologic, mai fac pace intre ei?
@ Vlad:
Poti sa-l si vezi. O sa-ti mai placa ?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CKDRSIFXiG4&feature=watch-now-button&wide=1
Sublim, sigur ca da, facem pace, sunt mereu pentru pace, doar ca nu mai tiu minte prea bine cand si de ce ne razboiam. Pace!
Tata citeaza o matusa care spunea: “cand exista literatura exceptionala de ce sa iti pierti timpul cu literatura buna”. Eu ii raspund (citind The Secret Garden, Wind in the Willows, Harry Potter :)): pentru ca imi face placere :). Poate nu ma”inalta in tarii” dar ma face sa zbor.